Trouble From the Start Read online

  For the longest time, he sat stiffly at the other end of the couch, his arms crossed over his chest, and glared at the screen, obviously wishing he were somewhere else. Then he started to relax. A scene with the minions made him smile. He dipped his hand into the popcorn bowl where it brushed up against mine.

  He went completely still, while my heart thundered inside my chest so hard that I was afraid Dad—or worse, Fletcher—would hear it. The spark that shot up my arm was silly, ridiculous . . . unsettling. The only reason I didn’t jerk my hand back was because I figured it would give him some sort of satisfaction. Apparently, completely unaffected, he tiptoed his fingers over mine, before scooping up some popcorn and tossing it into his mouth. His gaze never left the screen, but I had a feeling he wasn’t watching the minions as closely, that he was aware of every breath I drew, every tingling nerve ending.

  I shifted my body, tucked my legs beneath me, and stared intently at the movie, all the while so incredibly aware of Fletcher. My peripheral vision was suddenly like something a superhero would have. Even in the dimly lit room, I could see how long his eyelashes were. I made out the strong lines of his profile, detected a slight bump in his nose that I’d never noticed before but was more pronounced in silhouette. The remnants of a fight, maybe. I wanted to smack whoever had broken his nose, even knowing that Fletcher had probably started the brawl.

  The odd thing was: I thought he was evaluating me just as closely and it made me want to squirm. At school, he often had his arm slung around some girl’s shoulders, and she was usually beautiful. I wasn’t slender. I was skinny. Downright skinny, with hollow cheeks and high cheekbones. Freckles dotted a nose that was too big for such a narrow face. I wasn’t hideous, but I wasn’t drop-dead gorgeous either. Usually it didn’t bother me, but then I’d never been scrutinized so thoroughly before.

  Why did I care if Fletcher was paying more attention to me than the movie? He wasn’t going to make any sort of pass at me. He’d had a chance last night and hadn’t taken it. So why was I sitting here wishing we were at a real movie theater, watching a nonanimated flick, sharing popcorn, with his arm around me? This was torture.

  As soon as the movie ended, Fletcher shoved himself off the couch like someone had set it on fire. He headed for the door.

  “Curfew,” Dad barked.

  Fletcher turned around, gave a long, slow nod, and said curtly, “Right.”

  I couldn’t imagine that he’d ever had a curfew. On Sunday nights during the school year it was ten o’clock. That was about ninety minutes from now. I figured he could get into a lot of trouble in that time.

  He stood there awkwardly, like he thought he should say something more. It made me uncomfortable to see him not exhibiting his usual cockiness. If he had been one of Dad’s typical projects, I would have done everything to make him feel at ease in his new surroundings. So why wasn’t I doing it?

  “Thanks for joining us,” I said.

  “Sure. Thanks for—” He waved his hand in a semicircle that I figured was meant to encompass the entire day, or at least the movie. “Yeah,” he finished, before walking out of the room.

  Standing, I folded the afghan and set it over the back of the couch.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea, Jack?” Mom asked, once Fletcher was out of hearing range.

  “He’ll adjust.”

  Mom looked at me, nodded toward Dad—or more specifically, Tyler, who was still curled on Dad’s lap. That was my cue that she wanted to talk without little ears—or my ears—listening.

  “Come on, squirt,” I said to Tyler as I lifted him in my arms. “Time for bed.”

  “Read me a story?”

  “Absolutely.”

  A story ended up being three before he finally drifted off, but I didn’t mind. Thinking about how much I’d miss him when I went off to college, I wandered into my room. One of my favorite places was the window seat in the corner. One window looked out on the front street, the other overlooked the garage. Sitting on the large purple pillow, I brought my legs up to my chest, wrapped my arms around them, and gazed out at the garage. I didn’t think it had been a conscious decision on my part not to turn on the lights, to just let the streetlights and moon illuminate the path I’d taken to the windows, but I did feel a little creepy that Fletcher wouldn’t know I was here, wouldn’t know I was watching him.

  Hunched forward, forearms pressed to his thighs, he was sitting on the top of the steps leading to his apartment. I wondered if he was considering making a break for it. I couldn’t blame him. Someone who got into as much trouble as he did probably wasn’t used to parental controls. And my dad was all about control.

  I watched as he lifted a bottle to his lips, took a long swallow. It looked like a beer bottle. If Dad caught him with that . . .

  Wasn’t any of my business, but I’d been big sister to about half a dozen kids during my life, and while Fletcher was older than I was, I couldn’t quite shrug off my protective nature. With a roll of my eyes and a huff, knowing I was probably going to regret it, I headed outside.

  Chapter 6

  FLETCHER

  I liked listening to the quiet. It wasn’t totally without sound, but it was hushed, calm. I could hear the occasional car going down a distant street, a dog barking. I could hear the crickets, the wind rustling leaves in the trees. I could hear the creak of a gate opening, the slap of flip-flops on a cement path.

  Avery hesitated at the foot of the stairs. Her reluctance to be here radiated off her in waves. She squared her shoulders and started up. I didn’t want to admire her, but I did. She had a strength, a toughness that wasn’t immediately visible from the outside. You had to look close. Or closely, I guessed. Verbs, adverbs, adjectives. What did it matter? Words weren’t going to change my life.

  I’d labeled her a suck-up, a Goody Two-shoes. When the truth was: she was just nice.

  I didn’t know what to do with nice.

  She lowered herself to the step I was sitting on, pressed her shoulder against the railing to put space between us. She was leaning so hard against it that I was surprised the wood didn’t splinter and give way. She didn’t say anything, just sat there, arms wrapped around her stomach, staring out into the street like it appeared I was doing. Only, I was watching her.

  “My dad can be a little overwhelming with his family time,” she said softly. “It’s his job, I think. There’s always a chance when he leaves for work, he won’t come back.”

  “That’s morbid.”

  “But reality. He got shot several years back when he was working undercover, nearly died, so he never takes time with us for granted. I love him, I love that he’s attentive, but between you and me, I can’t wait to move out, to have some freedom.”

  I didn’t know why my gut clenched at the thought of her leaving. What did I care where she went? Still, I heard myself ask, “When are you going?”

  “The fall, when I start college.” She seemed to relax, her shoulders rounding slightly. She sighed. “Austin. I’m going to Austin, major in biology, become a doctor. What are you going to do after graduation?”

  “Probably get a haircut.”

  Her head snapped around so fast that I actually heard her neck pop. Since I was looking at her discreetly, it didn’t take much for me to turn my eyes toward her. Her brow was furrowed and her mouth was slightly scrunched up. I didn’t think she often looked confused.

  “You’re kidding, right?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “My hair is getting pretty long.”

  She released a deep sigh and uncurled her body, frustration with me chasing away whatever wariness she’d felt when she first arrived. “Can’t you share anything? Why do you have to be so mysterious?”

  Because sharing meant opening yourself up to hurt. I wasn’t going there, not with her, not with anyone. Instead, I lifted the bottle I held between two fingers and took a deep swig.

  “My dad is not going to be happy that you’re drinking beer. Where did you get it, anywa